Notes

May 30, 2006

Here's an easy one-day drive from Philadelphia or the Lancaster area, taken directly from my Daytrips Pennsylvania Dutch Country & Philadelphia guidebook, but updated and with color added. It can also be done by bicycle. Don't forget to bring along a really good appetite! CLICK HERE to download.

May 27, 2006

Summer of '55. I'm not quite 21 yet, but have now advanced to become a second assistant to the renowned New York photographer Richard Avedon. Although I had not yet handled a major job by myself, somehow the boss decided to take me along on this assignment, with no other assistants. Why I don't know, as I nearly screwed up royally, but more of that later.

The job was a dream for all concerned. We were to travel to San Francisco, spend nearly a week there taking exactly one photo, then meet with the movie director Stanley Donen and travel with him to the Hearst Castle at San Simeon where they would discuss making a musical loosely (very loosely) based on Avedon's photo career. My role was to drive, to keep the client away from the boss, and to do the technical work of making it all happen.

I flew out before them, carrying a monster 8 x 10 camera, film, lights, stands, and other stuff. This was before jets, and the only flight I could get was to Burbank, from which I took a bus to LAX and another piston plane to San Francisco. Along the way, just before the crack of dawn and flying over either Nevada or New Mexico, I was startled by a blinding flash of light of greater intensity than I had ever known. For a moment I thought that the sun had exploded, but then the pilot announced that we had just witnessed an atomic bomb test. Wow!

Checking in at the Fairmont Hotel, I just dumped everything in the room without checking it first. Big mistake.

The next few days were spent "acclimating" ourselves to the city by riding cable cars and eating at places like the Blue Fox. Every night I entertained the client by being his drinking companion at all the pubs in town. Did I mention that he was a lush? We even hit what was probably the original Trader Vic's.

Finally, the day for shooting. The assignment was for a photo of Dave Brubeck and his quartet with the model Suzy Parker for a joint promotion by Helena Rubinstein cosmetics and Columbia Records. His new record, Jazz Red Hot and Cool, was given away with a purchase of both the lipstick and nail polish of the same name. It was shot at the hungry i, a hip nightclub. Photo above, from left: Me, Avedon, Brubeck, and Susy.

Now about that monumental screwup. Being young and stupid, I neglected to check the equipment and just left it in the hotel room. When I arrived at the hungry i a few hours before the rest, I began setting up and noticed that the the rear of the huge 8 x 10 camera was smashed in. In near panic, I checked the Yellow Pages for a camera repair place, hurried to it, and pleaded with the guy to do it immediately. He took pity on me, and I was back at the club with everything ready — and no one was the wiser. The photo, right was used as both the cosmetic ad and the album cover.

Now about the movie. Paramount Pictures wanted to do a musical inspired by Avedon's career, to star Audrey Hepburn as a model and Fred Astaire as the fashion photographer, called Dick Avery in the film. Stanley Donen was to direct Funny Face, as it was called, but there were details to work out first. Since Avedon was closely associated with the Hearst Corporation, he wangled an invitation to use the Hearst Castle at San Simeon for the conference. William Randolph Hearst was already dead, and the family only occasionally used the place, and in 1957 gave it to the State of California for use as a tourist attraction.

I drove the whole party, Avedon and his wife Evie plus Donen and his wife, all crowded into a rented convertible, along the coastal road with a detour through the Monterey Peninsula. The estate, about the size of an entire county, looked like a scene right out of Citizen Kane. This 1941 film by Orson Welles was, of course, all about Hearst, who threatened to sue and succeeded in having the film banned. In fact, it went unseen until the late 50s. Stanley Donen was extremely curious about it and thought that there might, perversely, be a copy in the castle's movie theater. So we snuck into the projection booth and searched but, alas, no such luck. Photo above is in the castle. From the left: Avedon, me, and Mrs. Donen. Photo on left is of the outdoor pool.

The movie got made the next year, and was released in 1957. While I was in Army Basic Training, I received a letter from the studio inviting me to a private screening in New York, but the only way I could do that was to go AWOL, so I declined. I finally saw it on TV a few years later, and now have it on DVD. An entertaining flick, but any resemblance between the story and the real events was, as they say, purely coincidental. From San Simeon I drove them to Bel Air, then stayed a short while in Beverly Hills before returning to New York.

NEW:

Photography's Golden Age ended long ago but remains very much alive in my memory. From 1952 through 1965 I assisted Avedon during his most creative period, and do I ever have the stories to tell! Now, at the end of 2015, is the time to reveal all, while I'm still alive and kicking. Tales of personalities, motivations, intrigues, and even the fine details of how it was all done.

What I need to make this a reality is a co-conspirator to aid in getting the whole, true, uncensored story published -- either as a book, an e-book, or even a documentary.

May 26, 2006

Just to liven things up a bit, I'm starting a new thread. Actually, there will soon be many new threads, each on a different subject. This one is about my experiences in the U.S. Army in the late 1950s. On the surface, a time of peace. Ike was president then, the Korean War was over, and Khrushchev was visiting Disneyland. But under the surface a lot was going on.

In the early fall of 1956 my draft notice arrived, suggesting that I travel to Philadelphia for a pre-induction physical. I was 22 years old, and in good health, so of course I was accepted. A few days later a recruiting sergeant called me, offering a more "interesting" service if I would enlist for three years instead of the compulsory two. Assuming that I qualified for a top-secret clearance, my time would be spent overseas in the Army Security Agency, then a military branch of the NSA. Actually, I'm glad this happened — it was as much a life-changing experience as my now-interrupted photo career in New York.

Shortly after Christmas I left for Basic Training at Fort Jackson, South Carolina. That's me on the left.This was not nearly as tough as I feared, certainly not the living hell depicted in Stanley Kubrick's great flick, Full Metal Jacket. In fact, it had its fun moments — like shooting guns, crawling through the mud, and throwing hand grenades that went boom. And it only lasted about two months. And, yes, my clearance came through, so I was off to Fort Devens, Massachusetts and the Security Agency. After they discovered that I was absolutely useless at anything to do with cryptography, and that I had worked in advertising, it was decided that I should attend the Information School to learn the Army's way of writing press releases. Just what a super-secret agency wanted with press releases was beyond me, but it sounded like a good deal.

This assignment took me back to familiar territory — Fort Slocum, an ivy-covered old fortress on a tiny island just off the Bronx, almost within sight of Manhattan. Although run by the U.S. Army, the school had students from all the services as well as from allied countries, both enlisted peons and officers. Our instructors ranged from a sergeant teaching typing to a general teaching philosophy. That's one of our classes on the right. And we made field trips into the city, visiting newspapers, film producers, and TV stations. And, since I had a car, I drove home to Pennsylvania each weekend.

May 25, 2006

Fresh out of high school, finished with a summer job and just turned 18, I moved from Allentown, Pennsylvania, to New York City and a tiny (really tiny) pad on Manhattan's West Side. It was right after Labor Day, 1952. Filled with excitement and a little trepidation, I hurried across Central Park, glancing at the beasts in the zoo, and along 60th Street to 640 Madison Avenue. On the second floor of this rather odd two-story, block-long building was the studio of Richard Avedon, my new employer and, as it happpened, my mentor as well. The door was locked. Okay, it was only 8:30, so I waited outside. At 9 they came.

What a group they all made. Here's some of them, and that's me on the floor. This was the set for one of the first jobs after I started, a part of the "I Dreamt I Was A (whatever) In My Maidenform Bra." Avedon is on the right, with Polly, his secretary. Peeking from behind is George, the studio manager, and Marty, the first assistant. I was low guy on the totem pole, but we all have to start somewhere.

In the weeks that followed, I learned their darkroom procedures, did errands, kept the place tidy, and got to meet some major celebrities.

Even before the London book was printed, Hastings House offered me a contract to do another title, Daytrips in Germany. So, with copies of the London book in hand along with the contract, I visited the New York offices of GermanRail, DZT (the German Tourist Authority), and Lufthansa for all the goodies they could bestow. The Germans were even more generous than the Brits, covering my hotels in Munich and Hamburg. This, combined with bunking with a friend near Frankfurt, made this truly an affordable adventure.

THE THIRD BOOK BEGINS:

By the summer of 1984 sales of both the London and Germany books were sufficient to justify a new venture, Daytrips in France. So off I went to visit the New York offices of Air France, which offered free transportation in return for my writing some promotional material for them. A fair trade, and it later landed me occasional jobs preparing advertising copy for them. In total I spent nearly all of September and October in France, hiking all over some 45 towns in quest of the best walking tour routes.

Back in New York, other projects delayed the France book, but the manuscript was completed by mid-July of 1985. While this was being prepared, I spent much of September and nearly all of October back in France doing research for two "good value" dining guides to be given out free to Air France's frequent fliers as a goodwill gesture. The airline armed me with a letter (in French) to be shown to prospective restaurants, explaining my mission. This resulted in many a free meal. I really liked this job.

In December of 1985, Walter Frese retired and Hastings House Publishers was sold to a new owner. I made one last trip to the old office to rescue every scrap of paper relating to the Daytrips books, and then crossed East 40th Street to our new headquarters.

There are hundreds of posts here on a wide variety of subjects, but finding whatever interests you is easy! Just go to the left-hand column and click on the appropriate category. Some of these lead directly to articles, while others open an index with descriptions of the many choices. Older postings are frequently updated. The most popular categories are: Free Daytrips Chapters (taken from my Daytrips series of travel guides), The Avedon Years (about my 10 years of assisting photographer Richard Avedon), and ASA/Military Service (about my experiences in the U.S. Army Security Agency in the 1950s).

The story continues. February 17, 1983. I hurried to the Hastings House office to pick up my books. What a moment that was! In print at last! From there I ran the two blocks to the NYC office of British Rail to present the first copy to Paul Weiss, who had been such a help to me. In the next few days I delivered copies to the British Tourist Authority and to British Airways.

A LITTLE BIT OF PUBLICITY BEGINS:

Just days after the London book came off the press, the nice folks at Hastings House had me scheduled to give a talk at the New York branch of the English Speaking Union, a worldwide organization dedicated to the dissemination of English culture. This had me very nervous, as I am terrified of giving even a few words at a family gathering. So I borrowed a lot of color slides from the British Tourist Authority, selected ones that matched my book, and showed them along with a written script.The audience was kind enough not to boo me, I actually sold all of the copies I had brought along, and we had a merry old time over sherry afterwards. So much for stage fright, a nice experience overall.

Three weeks later I was marched off to WOR-TV in New York, where I was to be a guest on the Joe Franklin Show. He also took pity on me, said nice things about the book, and kept me at ease throughout the hour. Strangely, once the taping began, I forgot all about my nervousness and really got into the discussion. Another appearance on a local cable show followed a few days later. I was getting into this!

In August of 1984 my efforts got a nice little mention in the New York Times, which was repeated in the International Herald Tribune on September 14th. The latter came as a surprise as I was flying from Paris to Nice, and this was in the newspaper the airline distributed to the passengers. Other papers around the country also reviewed the book favorably, giving me a bit more than the notorious 15 minutes of semi-fame.

Nowadays, the Banana Republic only sells clothing, but during the 1980s this chain also featured travel books — for which they published a rather lavish catalog. It was always fun to visit their upper Broadway store in Manhattan and see my books displayed among the safari jackets. They even started a travel agency specializing in third-world wanderings, and an abortive attempt at a travel magazine reflecting the then-owner's cultural views. Alas, the chain was bought out by another that was actually interested in making money, so all this travel foolishness gave way to more T-shirts.

If you'd like to browse through the pages of the latest edition of my first book, just as you would in a book store, just visit Google Books and type "Daytrips London" in the search field. Or check it out on the Hastings House website. And, if you's like to see complete sample chapters from this and other Daytrips books,CLICK HERE.

May 24, 2006

HOW THOSE GREAT B&W PRINTS WERE MADE...a peek into some nearly-forgotten photographic techniques.

The noted photographer Richard Avedon was famous for many things, not the least of which was the fantastic technical quality of his black-and-white prints. During my first years as one of his assistants I learned how this was achieved, and later as his studio manager was able to expand on the techniques. They were quite unusual, and very contrarian to the official methods promoted by the likes of photo schools and even Kodak itself. Today, of course, only a handful of enthusiasts still practice traditional chemical-based darkroom work, but for them, for anyone curious about this part of photography's past, and for the historical record, I will tell all I know. Right here. Bear with me, this gets a bit technical.

First comes the exposure:

In the earlier days, pre-1962 and before electronic flash had been fully adopted, many of his most luscious pictures were taken by hot incandescent lights, in particular by a 1,500-watt lamp in a reflector about 18" in diameter with a thick fiberglass diffuser. This was placed very close to the subject, just outside of camera range, on a stand that could easily be moved as the subject moved. Often it was only a foot or so from their face. The film being used in the 120 Rolleiflex TLR camera was Plus-X, and the exposure set at 1/60 second at f/8. This resulted in deliberate overexposure, the first in several unorthodox steps.

Around 1962 we began using a BALCAR 1200 studio strobe with an umbrella reflector, at its full output of 1,200 joules. Again, this was placed as close as possible to the subject, just out of camera range. Because of the huge light output of the strobe we switched to Panatomic-X film, with an ASA index of 25, and stopped down to f/16. This still resulted in considerable overexposure, as before. Built-in flashes on typical amateur cameras, by the way, probably output no more than 20 joules.

The reason for being so close is simple: the ratio of light reflectance from the subject is in direct proportion to proximity. If a light source is more than a few feet away, the same amount of light falls on every part of the subject that is not in shadow, resulting in a flat light. If it is close, different parts of the face or body receive differing amounts of light, resulting in a "rounder" or more dimensional appearance.

Then to the darkroom:

Not only was the film overexposed, it was also overdeveloped. We used a long-forgotten developer that was popular in the 1930s when 35mm cameras were coming into use and when film was much granier than it became by the 1950s. Formulated to reduce grain by smoothing the edges of the individual silver halide clusters, Panthermic 777 was a godsend to early adopters of 35mm. By the mid-50s, as films improved, it had fallen from favor, and had to be specially ordered as a liquid in glass one-gallon jugs. We liked it because, when used for extended developing times, it produced dense negatives with remarkably smooth tonal transitions.

Finally, the print room:

After numbering, the negatives were contact-printed. Nothing fancy here; all photographers did the same thing. When a series of selections were made from the contacts, "rough prints" were made in either the 8" x 10" or 11" x 14" format. From these a final image choice was made. Now the fun begins.

From the 1940s until about 1960, "finish" prints were made on DuPont Defender graded papers, developed in Dektol. In the early 60s, after DuPont stopped making papers, a miracle arrived from Germany. Agfa Brovira paper was so far superior to any other B&W photo printing paper that there was no comparison. The reason was simple: the good folks at Leverkusen were willing to spend money and use an extraordinary amount of silver in the emulsion, resulting in much richer blacks and shinier whites.

Our finish-print darkroom was equipped with three enlargers, two wall-mounted Omega D2s (above, left, with our assistant Jan Forstrom in 1965) with extended tracks, and a monster Saltzman 8 x 10 (photo, right) that was a good 14' high, used a mercury-vapor lamp, and had remote controls. Most of the work was done on the Omegas, using interchangeable cold-light, condenser, or pin-point lamp heads, and Nikkor lenses. Finish prints were usually made in the 16" x 20" format. Close at hand were a variety of dodging and burning-in tools, although I preferred to just use my hands to control the exposure on various parts of the picture. This skill can only be gained by experience.

This may seem a contradiction, but lighting in a darkroom is important. You have to be able to see what you're doing. Ordinary "safelights" are really not up to the task; if they're dim enough to allow you to see the projected image during exposure, they're not bright enough to carefully watch it develop and know when to stop development. Fortunately, B&W photo papers have no sensitivity at all to a quite narrow slice of the visible spectrum — the very wavelength emitted by sodium-vapor lights. So we used a Duplex safelight (photo, right) hanging from the ceiling and equipped with a chain that operated a trap door. During exposure, the doors were partially closed to block most of the light; a yank of the chain flooded the room with bright but perfectly safe light during development.

The exposed paper was developed in a large tray of Dektol, surely the most popular developer at that time. But we "enhanced" it by adding additional hydroquinone, one of its key ingredients, to achieve even blacker blacks. We also had a small cup of hot concentrated hydroquinone at hand, with cotton balls and Q-tips to speed development of certain portions of the picture.

Sometimes, after the print was in the fixer stage, we decided that the little highlights needed a little boost. So we washed it off and gave it a quick bath in a weak solution of potassium ferricyanide (dangerous stuff — always use rubber gloves!), then back in the fixer and wash.

Finally, after washing in a Pako rotary-drum washer, the prints were soaked in a gylcerine solution prior to drying. This kept the emulsion pliable and prevented curling.

Now for the real secret — no expense was spared!Most prints were made at least ten times over until the "perfect" one emerged. Sometimes more than twenty times. I have at times spent an entire day on just one print. This is expensive, both in materials and in labor. The Agfa paper was not cheap, and had to be ordered in large quantities from Germany as their American distributors did not keep enough of the various sizes and contrast grades on hand. Sadly, it is no longer made, but other worthy papers continue to be available.

The art of Black-and-White printing is now being kept alive by a new generation of dedicated craftspersons. I salute them.

FILM PHOTOGRAPHERS REJOICE! Panthermic 777 developer and a lot of other old stuff is still available. CLICK HERE.

That's me in one of the darkrooms in 1965, as reported in Photographic Methods for Industry. I used to write for them.

Previously on this thread I discussed writing that first book. Now, Daytrips from London required maps, lots of maps. Over 50 of them. Today, of course, these would be created digitally, but back in the 1980s they had to be drawn with ink on poster boards, with graphics and lettering pasted in. Fortunately, Hastings House (a major publisher of graphics arts books at the time) was able to show me how this is done. Now you young 'uns might find this a really complicated way to draw a map, but pre-computers this was the procedure: First, photograph the appropriate part of a reference map using slide film. Then project the slide onto a white drawing board at least twice as big as it would be in the book, and lightly trace the image in pencil. The final drawing was made over this pencil trace, using "technical" pens of various widths filled with india ink. After this, the pencil image was erased, leaving only the inked lines. Tones were added by sticking down a thin film printed with tiny dots and cutting this with an X-acto knife, then peeling off the excess. Lettering was even more fun — I used rub-down Letraset letters and symbols, a really tedious process. You were always short one letter and had to run out to the art store! When completed, the map, then called a "mechanical," was photographed to its final reproduction size using "litho" film in a "process camera." The image was then burned onto the printing plate.

Oh, how computers have changed everything! All you need now is a draw program and a scanner. The whole procedure takes about an hour or so, depending on complexity. I won't tell you how because that's my secret, but smart folks like you can figure it out.

In my last posting along this thread, I told you how I developed a passion for photography that led to becoming an assistant to Richard Avedon, the renowned photographer. The story continues...

Late winter 1952, Allentown, Pennsylvania. Senior year, Allentown High School. While my friends were busy applying to colleges, I was undecided about my future, knowing only two things: that I wanted to escape to New York City and that I wanted to somehow be involved in photography. My parents, practical souls that they were, thought I should study engineering, or accounting, or anything that might guarantee a paying job. But I hated math. I considered the various photo schools, especially the Rochester Institute of Technology, although then there was the nasty problem of paying for it. So I hit on a plan.

Pouring for hours over magazines at the local library, I made a list of the photographers whose work appealed to me. I then checked out the Manhattan telephone directory and narrowed the list down to ten with studios in the Big Apple. To each of these I sent a letter offering to be their apprentice (slave, whatever) and to work for peanuts. This would be a great opportunity to learn the profession right there in an actual working environment.

Three of them responded, and I traveled to New York for interviews. One offered me the job, and that was Richard Avedon, who was then located at 640 Madisin Avenue, corner of 59th Street.

This was to start in September as he worked in Paris during the summer. I was enthralled. As my friends trudged off to Lehigh and Penn State, I installed myself in a tiny apartment just off Central Park West. My father had agreed to subsidize the difference between the pittance I was paid and the cost of living in New York. This was actually a good deal for him, much cheaper than sending me to college — and it was only a year until I was making enough to support myself.

NEXT: The adventures begin. Later, we'll meet some celebrities and later still, I'll also reveal how the legendary luminous quality of Avedon's Black-and-White prints was achieved. Any of you who are still splashing around in darkrooms should find this interesting.CLICK HERE to continue.